The Domestic Warrior

Sports fan. Connoisseur of good music (especially on vinyl). Consumer of the finest craft beers. Environmental activist. History geek. Dudeist Priest. Hunter S. Thompson junkie. And I write a little. Mostly though, I’m a dad. But I am unlike my dad. I am still the breadwinner, but laundry, cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, hugging, crying, disciplining and nurturing are also part of my routine. I am a domestic machine…I am, like many dads of my generation, The Domestic Warrior.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

The careers of Cleveland guard Kyrie Irving and Washington
guard John Wall will be forever linked.
Fair or unfair, that’s just how it is.
The points of intersection are too great; the comparison is too juicy to
ignore.

Both players attended blueblood institutions – Wall
chose Kentucky, Irving went to Duke – and left for the NBA after just one
season. Both were number one overall
picks in the NBA Draft - Wall (2010) and Irving (2011) - and have inked lucrative
contract extensions. Both players have
been four-time All-Stars. Both players
are among the best point guards in the world.
Oh…and both wear number 2.

Similar?
Yes. Identical? No.
The differences…

While Wall and Irving are both point guards, their
styles are unique. Wall is a traditional
point guard (a regrettably negative description in this great jump shot
era). He orchestrates offense through
masterful ball distribution. Wall can
score as required, but he thinks pass first.
His court vision is arguably the best; he inarguably makes his teammates
better (and a whole lot richer: see Bradley Beal and Otto Porter).

Irving has a little Allen Iverson in him. He’s a better pure shooter than Iverson, but
his offensive mentality is identical: score.
Pass? Well, sure…but only as necessary.

Pick your style.
Toe-may-toe; Toe-mah-toe. A
finely crafted IPA or a porter. The
Beatles or the Rolling Stones. Splendid
either way.

But there’s a non-basketball difference between these
two and it surfaced on the same day last week: Irving has a little drama in him…Wall
not so much.

In his first three seasons, Irving’s Cavs won 21, 24
and 33 games. In the last three,
Cleveland’s recorded 53, 57 and 51 wins, appeared in three NBA Finals and won a
NBA championship.

The change coincided with LeBron James’s return to Cleveland.Yet despite the success realized from the
James partnership, Irving requested that the Cavs trade him last week.Why?Irving
is fatigued by being Robin to James’s Batman and desires a new team where he
can play alpha-dog and receive the credit he feels he’s deserved.Never mind that James, at age 32, is likely
in decline and may leave Cleveland after this season – all things that would
offer Irving the leading role he covets…in Cleveland.And the timing – after the draft, after free
agency – was just awful.It drips of impulsiveness
and is saturated with self-interest.

In other words, Irving threw the latest NBA version of
a two-year-old fit.

Conversely, just hours after Irving’s trade request made
headlines, Wall signed a four-year extension with the Wizards. Wall is staying put and trying to build
something that Washington hasn’t had since 1978: a NBA champion. He’s pursuing his career-defining ring and
writing his legacy organically: no team hopping, no trade demands, no
drama. Instead of shunning Washington
because of all it isn’t, Wall is committed to elevating D.C. - a post-disco era
third-world NBA town - to basketball’s pinnacle. And Wall’s making that commitment in his typical
all-business, no bull---- style: It’s as if Wall’s never seen a daytime soap, is
unfamiliar with Susan Lucci and is disgusted by hysterical, tearless faux-cries.

Considering recent team history, Wall, not Irving,
should be seeking professional asylum from his current employer. But that’s not Wall’s style. Putting the money aside (it’s so inevitably
crazy for NBA stars that it’s irrelevant), Wall’s decision to remain with
Washington – a team that needs him more than he needs it - indicates that our
#2 values being synonymous with one team and one city and endearing himself to
one fan base. In other words, Wall doesn’t
just value fame, advancing his “brand” and chasing titles, he values something
that’s all but lost in major sports today: loyalty.

So while Cleveland deals with chaos in the wake of
Irving’s drama-bomb, consider, and appreciate, the calm surrounding the
Wizards. Consider and appreciate John
Wall, a man who has determined that the greenest grass grows beneath his feet.

Monday, July 24, 2017

In his book “Queer”, William S. Burroughs wrote,
“What happens when there is no limit?
What is the fate of The Land Where Anything Goes?” Considering national and world events since
last fall, a running scroll of unfortunate chaos, it feels like Burroughs’s
questions are about to be answered.

By any apolitical, objective assessment, the last six
months have been “unsettling”. Anything
can be said about anyone. The quality of
the nation’s health care appears secondary to a political score. With inconvenient scientists and scientific
fact systematically removed from the record, environmental stewardship has been
disregarded. International relations are
both strained and unrecognizable – long-time friends are on the fritz;
long-time foes are flirting. The
nation’s intelligence community is under a confounding internal attack. All news is fake; all media not stroking The
Administration’s massive and fragile ego are lying swine. The draw of Twitter at 3 a.m. is contributing
to nationwide insomnia. Every day brings
a new crisis - some real, much contrived.
Recent history is being obliterated; the future is a coin flip. The truth…it’s whatever it needs to be at any
given moment.

Ah, but what does it matter? Anything goes. Right then.
So it does.

In these equally bizarre and historic times, the role
of sports and their social utility is difficult to place. The games we watch have traditionally been a
definitive respite, a place where people of different backgrounds and political
persuasions unite to celebrate victories, mourn defeats and generally escape
the grind of life’s responsibilities. For
doubters of sports’ magical ability to bridge deep personal chasms, consider
this: During the 1968 Presidential campaign, Hunter S. Thompson, sworn Richard
Nixon antagonist, scored a private meeting with the future president…why?...because
Thompson, like Nixon, was a great connoisseur of pro football and Nixon,
knowing this, apparently needed a moment to relax and converse with someone of
equal pigskin intellect.

But now it is all so confusing. Would it occur to Donald Trump to chat with
Rachel Maddow if he knew she loved football and shared Trump’s failed vision
for the defunct USFL? I think not. Where oh where has the charm of this one-time
ultimate and all-welcoming Garden of Eden gone?
Is it still there, unspoiled by an acrimonious world that in any other
forum demands we take sides, dismiss numerous similarities and obsess over our
differences? And are sports capable of
promoting social change, as it did when Jackie Robinson took the field for the
Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947 or as they do more subtlety today by achieving
workforce diversity that should be the envy of corporate America? I’m willing to consider it. I’d rather conclude that sports hasn’t
changed and that everything else around them has.

Whatever the truth, sports’ ability to bind society
and demand its best feels diminished. In
every moment of crisis over the last 100 years, through wars, presidential
assassinations, the Civil Rights movement and terrorist attacks, sports weren’t
just games being played; they mattered – psychologically, socially and
historically. Now, in the world where
anything goes, they are just there, seemingly along for the ride and hesitant to
influence the vector of this pivot point in history.

Do I expect athletes to become swarming political
activists? No, but I expect more than
what has been delivered. I expect more
from Kevin Durant than immature and meaningless Twitter wars with
trollers. I expect more from the NBA
than giving LaVar Ball and his “Big Baller Brand” endless screen-time. I expect more from Tom Brady than channeling
Terrell Owens’s “I love me some me” sideline rant, and writing a book on how to
be like…Tom Brady.

Is some of that entertaining? Is it safe?
Personally beneficial? Yes, but
it is also diminishing and inconsequential in a time of great consequence. Edward Murrow once said, “We must not confuse
dissent with disloyalty…when the loyal opposition dies, I think the soul of
America dies with it.” Professional
sports used to be part of that loyal opposition. Maybe the money and the lifestyle are so good
now that athletes are content just being athletes…even if it kills a little of
America’s soul.

Considering only football-related factors, there’s no
plausible explanation for his want of work.
Kaepernick boasts a career quarterback rating of 88.9, an impressive 72-30
touchdown passes to interceptions ratio and in February 2013 came within one
goal line play of winning the Super Bowl.
What has he done lately? Last
season, with a talent-challenged 49ers team, Kaepernick threw 16 touchdown
passes, just four interceptions and posted an impressive 90.7 quarterback
rating.

And yet, not one of the 32 NFL teams has signed Kaepernick
this offseason. To offer some context to
this curious situation, here are a few employed backup quarterbacks: Sean Mannion (Rams), Geno Smith (Giants), Kellen Clemens
(Chargers), Trevone Boykin (Seahawks) and, just for you Ravens fans, Ryan Mallett.

Smith’s career quarterback rating is 72.4. Clemens’s is 69.4 and he’s won just 8 of 21
starts. Mallett slept through practice,
missed a team flight and lost 3 of 4 starts with the Texans in 2015. I’m unacquainted with the rest. When we meet, introduce yourself as Sean
Mannion; I won’t know the difference.

So with no rational football argument for Kaepernick’s
unemployment, what’s the dirty little secret?
As The Dude said, “This is a very complicated case…you know, a lotta
ins, lotta outs, lotta what-have-you’s.”

Call it public relations, brand protection or sensitivity
to consumer concerns - package it however you want. Just be sure to acknowledge what cannot be
denied: Kaepernick remains unemployed because he decided to be socially and
politically active last season and kneel during the national anthem to raise
awareness of on-going oppression of minorities.
Now his on-field contributions don’t justify the perceived trouble
accompany his employment.

And with that, a statement: this isn’t about the issue
fueling Kaepernick’s protest. That’s
been debated, picked over, marinated and cooked to a crisp. Opinions are set. Hopefully it advanced our country in a
positive way.

What is worthy of further consideration is why
Kaepernick remains unemployed and what it says about tolerance of players
choosing to be athletes and activists – a combination that has produced change
agents like Jackie Robinson, Billie Jean King, Muhammad Ali, Kathrine Switzer
and Arthur Ashe. The NFL, with its stated
intent to “protect the shield”, didn’t want to be bothered and it might
be/probably is using Kaepernick to send this message: no unnecessary
controversy on our stage…we are the lords of pro football.

Don’t miss the hypocrisy. And really, how could you in time when
certain people can say denigrating things about, well, just about anyone and
suffer no consequences? The NFL waved
off Ray Rice and is apparently doing the same with Kaepernick while it continues
to employ the likes of Ben Roethlisberger, Adam Jones, Michael Floyd and Sheldon
Richardson, players with rap sheets that should be universally offensive and actually
do erode the NFL’s brand. Just last
year, Goodell, with a wink and a giggle, suspended Richardson for one game
after he went on a 143 mph joy ride in his Bentley. After being pulled over, police detected the
odor of marijuana, found a semi-automatic handgun and discovered a 12-year-old
passenger. What a role model! And while we’re pondering the transgressions
of NFL players, do not forget the league’s very dubious (mis)handling of
concussion data – likened to the tobacco’s industry’s statistical manipulations
– and the $765M settlement it paid out to former players in 2013.

Amidst this ethical and moral ooze, Kaepernick, a man
who has been genuine and thought-provoking about his anthem protest and who is an
all-star philanthropist, is the great villain the NFL would prefer to see
eradicated from its payroll? Whatever
brand protection the league sought post-protest has been undone by the wall Big
Brother NFL and Party leader Goodell built between Kaepernick and the football
field. Kaepernick shouldn’t be
ostracized, he should be appreciated for his social awareness and lauded for
courage to act (more athletes should).
At the very least, he should be employed. That he’s not is an indictment of the NFL and
the skewed value system it perceives exists in its patrons. Does it?

If LeBron “The King” James, the man and the basketball
player, was tried by a jury of unbiased peers, in Judge Objective’s courtroom,
the unanimous verdict would be not guilty – not guilty of falling short of any
reasonable or meaningful measure of a man and hardcourt legend.

In 2003, James was the most heralded high school
basketball player since Dr. Naismith hung his peach basket. James’s combination of size, strength and comprehensive
basketball skill was inconceivable. He
passed like a point guard, scored like a two-guard and had the body of a power
forward. The potential for basketball
feats never witnessed had NBA fans salivating.

Basketball superlatives aside, James has been first
team all-human off the court. Imagine
being the NBA’s newly anointed “next best thing”, immediate hero to Cleveland
and your home state of Ohio, apple of Nike’s eye and with a personal gross
national product that outranked many countries – all at age 18. Would nefarious temptations have compromised
your scruples? Might there have been a
late night brawl or traffic stop gone awry?
An embarrassing TMZ story concerning a love interest? With James there’s been none of those famous athlete-run-amuck
clichés. Yes, there was The Decision –
James’s mishandled free agency announcement.
And he can be fussy with the media at times (what ultra-competitive
athlete isn’t?). But these are victimless
blemishes and petty complaints considering the remarkable grace with which
James has handled fame and the blinding light shining on him 24/7.

Unconvinced?
Read his Wiki page and notice what it lacks: domestic violence, DUI,
late-night carousing and general “jerk spoiled athlete” behavior. What you will find: a stud basketball player,
political activist, philanthropist and a man who married his high school
sweetheart. That’s Central Casting stuff
for The Great American Hero.

And yet, except for Tom Brady, there’s no other athlete
of his stature who galvanizes the cantankerous, jealous and ill-intended haters
like LeBron James. Aside from fans of
James’s team, people mostly want him to fail.
They relish in his Finals defeats and mock him for not matching Michael
Jordan’s accomplishments. There’s public
pleasure in James’s pain. When The King
loses, the people win.

James’s obsessive critics are often the same people
who deify former greats like Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Wilt Chamberlain and
Michael Jordan. Really? Johnson, lest we forget in the rightful
celebration of his contributions to HIV awareness, acquired the virus as a
consequence of promiscuity. Bird’s
estrangement from his biological daughter has largely been dismissed. Chamberlain, the most dominant basketball
force of all time, notoriously bragged about his sexual exploits with thousands
of women. And then there’s the precious
Michael Jordan. On the basketball court,
he was the Greatest of all Time. Off it,
he was a terrible teammate capable of visceral, demeaning criticism (similar to
corporate icon Steve Jobs), a notorious gambler and an adulterer.

These are our declared basketball heroes. And James is our pariah?

Ani DiFranco’s song “32 flavors” includes this line:
“Everyone harbors a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room.” Ditto for the most gifted basketball player
in world…based on pure, unadulterated hypocrisy. On the one hand, Jordan is worshipped and the
extramarital antics of Tiger Woods and violent acts of Ray Rice incite appropriate
outrage. On the other, there’s a confounding
lust for James’s failures, a genuine pleasure in it, despite him being, by all
accounts, a good father and husband and a survivor of a fishbowl capable of
exposing the smallest of character flaws.

But it is what it is; James’s public cast is set. That aforementioned objective trial will
never happen. No matter, for this much
is clear: the conviction of James as non-Jordan and the condemnation of him as
the NBA’s villain is more of an indictment of the would-be jury’s values and
character than it is of The King’s.

Thursday, June 1, 2017

I owe the men’s lacrosse team at Towson University, my
alma mater, an apology. After securing
the CAA conference’s automatic bid to the NCAA tournament, the Tigers went on
an epic heater.

In round one, we (alumni status qualifies for “we”
usage, right?) laid waste to Penn State.
The second-ranked Syracuse Orange were next. No problem: Towson 10, Cuse 7. The win over Syracuse earned Towson its third
trip to lacrosse’s Final Four and a date with the Ohio State Buckeyes last
Saturday.

It was 7-3 Tigers at halftime and all was just freak-out-splendid. Then I unknowingly transmitted The Darkness
through the television, to Gillette Stadium in Foxboro, Massachusetts and into
every innocent soul in the Towson locker room.
When the clock expired, the scoreboard chronicled the carnage: Buckeyes 11,
Tigers 10. The dream was over. Dead.
The only thing left was the primal wailing and the wretched prose of a
madman and 1995 Towson graduate somewhere in Leonardtown.

The Darkness is that very real, very evil force
enveloping D.C. professional sports. It
is to the hopes of D.C. sports fans what Round-Up is to a misplaced weed or a
famished seagull is to a Thrasher’s French fry on the Ocean City
boardwalk. I thought it was quarantined
to the D.C. area. Now I’m worried that
I’m Patient Zero, that I’m the curse and that I, through my fandom, infected my
beloved Tigers.

And if that’s possible, even probable, what’s
next? With Baltimore compromised, are
the Ravens and O’s doomed? And what of
youth sports? Could I ruin high school
or rec-league seasons? Oh the kids…the
kids…

Avoid me like the next great plague. Shutter the doors to your school gym. Establish a perimeter around local soccer
fields. Or…feel free to buy me a drink
and reintroduce me to something I’ve lost hold of - reality. As Janis Joplin said, I’m “feeling near as
faded as my jeans.”

Okay then.
Enough of all that. Lacrosse,
Towson, curses: these were unintended topics.
But here we are again, off on another uncontrollable tangent. Grab the stick, man! Get control of this beast! Course correct!

There we are. Kevin
Durant is what this is about: The man who strolled into free agency last
summer, ignored his hometown Wizards, broke hearts in Oklahoma City and signed
with the Golden State Warriors. With a single
pen-stroke he so concentrated the talent in the NBA to two cities – Cleveland
and Oakland – that the regular season was rendered a tedious formality. This year would end with Dubs v. Cavs and, by
God, here we are.

Durant received much grief for his decision and the
competition-neutering ripple it sent through the league. How could he sell out like this? Why destroy all he had built in Oklahoma
City? Did he not care that his legacy
would be reduced in Golden State even if he won multiple titles because, well,
he now should win multiple titles?
Wouldn’t championships with that Warriors roster equate to glorified participation
trophies?

I initially hated Durant’s decision for all these
reasons. He’s a beloved local and this
just felt so LeBron-to-Miami-ish, minus an awkward primetime announcement and
arrogance-infused pep rally.

Right. So
here’s where I am: I respect Durant for wanting to surround himself with elite
talent. Don’t we all seek such
situations during our professional careers?
Ultimate success is the point, isn’t it?
Does the formula really matter? And
should a player be criticized for sacrificing statistics and MVP awards for
championships? Lawd, I hope not.

In reflection, I suppose I owe Durant an apology
too. Will I root for him versus the
Cavs? It’s doubtful. But if recent history serves, my alignment
with the Cavs will virtually guarantee Durant gets what he went to Golden State
for: a championship. One team’s Darkness
is another’s light.

Saturday, May 20, 2017

After taking a brief hiatus, I’m back - or at least some
damaged version is – from a self-imposed exile from society at-large, D.C.
sports in general and the eternally-hexed Washington Capitals, specifically. The Darkness, the evil force undeniably
enveloping D.C.’s professional teams, overwhelmed me.

How acute was my sports-affective disorder? After the inexplicable, inexcusable and
completely illogical Game 4 loss to the Penguins, I was Caps-fan-on-fire: screaming
like a 1980’s hair metal concert goer and using language that wouldn’t make my
momma proud.

The aftermath was unprecedented: I abandoned the Caps. With the misery needle buried in the red, I
did not watch games 5-7. First time in
my life I’ve ever done such a thing. I’d
seen this Caps script too many times and was in no place to willfully subject
myself to the anguish. This annual
torment is the Caps’ Rite of Spring, if you will, a play on the
haunting/doomsday’s approaching masterpiece by…wait for it…Russian composer Igor
Stravinsky. Game 4 broke me. I couldn’t even write; a condition critical
that forced Duke Radbourn to pen the last column while I recovered.

But enough of that.
Here we are, together again, in this fabulous moment to discuss
something of substance or at least bizarre, like the death of major sports
league.

The buried lede: The NFL won’t live to see Super Bowl
C (100) in 2066, not in its current form.
The now undeniable consequences on the human body and, more importantly,
the human brain are too great.

Countless former NFL players are suffering from early
on-set dementia, a diagnosis that is often posthumously changed to Chronic
Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE). Confusion. Mood swings.
Child-like behavior.
Forgetfulness. Depression. Suicide.
These are the symptoms. Two more names
were added to the NFL’s victim list last week: Nick Buoniconti and Jim Kiick, teammates
on the undefeated 1972 Miami Dolphins. Many,
many more will follow.

But this generation has something the priors didn’t:
knowledge of football’s risks. That
knowledge will curb the NFL’s talent supply, either through increased early
retirements or young athletes opting for other sports. It will also pull the league’s purse strings
as sponsors disassociate their brand from a debilitating sport.

What does the future hold for America’s sport?

Tom Brady, pending Madden cover boy, might have teased
the answer recently. When playing the
game with his son, Brady disclosed that he chooses either Green Bay or
Seattle. New England? Not an option. His son makes that claim.

Virtual football.
Is that where we’re headed? Is virtual
reality the solution for the NFL?

Crazy talk?
Sure. I’ve been a little
bleary-eyed recently. I’ve flirted with
the dark corners of my brain. But if you
think the NFL will just keep marching along, as is, with the same corporate
sponsors and the same supply line snaking back through colleges, high schools
and pee wee football, you aren’t paying attention to what professional football
is doing to its participants.

Think of these scenarios: a fully virtual league or
one where players are robots, controlled remotely by humans. In the former the “players” are programmed
with attributes – size, speed, etc. – with complex coding/simulation
determining the outcome. In the latter,
all robots are physically identical with the game decided by the skill of
gamers. Or something like that. You get the idea.

No more concussions.
No more injuries. Player
personalities could be cultivated like WWE stars. Gridiron superheroes. And ponder the potential revenue growth with
the sport now globally viable and freed of human body-imposed game limits.

But would we watch?

Of course we would.
This is 2066, mind you. When
considering the technological advances of the last 50 years, is 2066 even sufficiently
imaginable to mount a counter-argument? And
do you doubt future generations will lack the bloodthirst that makes football
so appealing?

Besides, look at us now. Concocted Facebook lives. On-line dating. Reality television (which is often anything
but). Virtual reality is everywhere –
and it’s getting scary-good. Facts are
routinely skewed. Fiction thrives, even
in the most important facets of American life.
If the story’s compelling, we’ll buy a ticket and take the ride without
hardly a question asked.

Words
rifle across the screen. I’m numb. Emotion was for year’s past and another, less
psychologically weathered version of myself.
Now, the decades of scar tissue have left me still. Cold.
Resigned. Washington, D.C.: This
town, this cursed town and its professional sports teams have broken me. The ‘Skins, Bullards, Capitals and Nationals
win enough to stir hope and sometimes enough to justify big, spectacular,
championship dreams. But in the end, all
are fool’s gold. Heartbreakers. Soul shakers.

In
the last 48 hours, the Caps soiled themselves (again), losing the first two
games at home, and effectively, another second-round the playoff series to the
Pittsburgh Penguins. Spare me the insult
of hanging another hollow Presidents’ Trophy banner. Sandwiched between the Caps’ losses, the
Nats’ season took a grotesque turn when Adam Eaton, the gritty catalyst that
the team emptied its farm system to acquire in the offseason, blew out his
ACL. Bye-bye 2017! The Nats’ scorching April was nothing more
than a cruel nibble of what could’ve been a divine course. Yes, the Bullards won a series against
Atlanta. But the inevitable reality is
they’ll done in by Boston or LeBron’s Cavaliers. Choose your death.

I’m
consumed by The Darkness. My passion
meter has flat-lined. So I’m punting
this week’s column over to Duke Radbourn, a wise old and some say mythical
friend and occasional contributor to this column. For my sake, for your sake, here’s what Duke
has to say about something.

Good grief, Junior.
I’m supposed to recover from that dreary introduction and whip this
crowd into a wide-eyed frenzy? There’s
barely a discernable pulse. Is this an
audience of people or corpses? Hard to
tell. Zombies perhaps? Ah well.
I’ll rip into something. Opinions
you need? Opinions I have. So here it goes. Relax and enjoy, but hold on tight…I tend to
be reckless.

Remember Diamond Stone? An emphatic “no” is understandable. The kid with the fancy, superhero/WWE-ready
name was a 2015 McDonald’s All-American.
He shunned his home-state Wisconsin Badgers and committed to Maryland
late in the recruiting process. It
earned our beloved turtles a preseason top-five ranking. Final Four dreams were dancing in our heads,
if ever so briefly.

After one under-whelming season in College Park (for
team and player), Stone, then just 19, chose to chase his NBA dream (and NBA
riches). Understandable. To that point, Stone had been on the
basketball fast-track, a path where success, accolades and praise were in
healthy supply. Cool stuff for a teenage
mind, eh? Intoxicating. Why wouldn’t he jump at any trace of NBA flirtations? Why indeed?

Stone probably figured he was a mid-first round pick
at worst, a status that would have scored a guaranteed three-year, ~$4.5M
contract – lucrative work for a teenager!
Reality: Stone was selected 40th overall and ultimately inked
a two-year deal in the $1.4M range.

That’s still good moolah, but Stone didn’t exactly live
his NBA fairytale. He played in just
seven games and scored 10 measly points with the Clippers this year. Frankly, Stone’s dubious professional
existence is defined by extended stints with two NBA Development League teams you’ve
never heard of: Salt Lake City Stars and Santa Clara Warriors. For this NBA-lite experience, Stone forfeited
a chance to star on a young, talented Maryland team, make a run in the NCAA
tournament and spend another glorious year as a big man on a big college
campus.

But Stone had it all figured out, as many youths
do. Speed, and a hint of entitlement, to
one’s destination carries the day. Process? Marination?
Grinding, paying dues and developing skills to ensure success at the
highest levels? Nonsense.

Stone can’t be begrudged for getting paid, but the joy
in the journey often matches that of the destination. Stone’s financially richer for his NBA
adventure, but poorer in some ways too. And
no matter how much money he makes in the grown-up world of professional
basketball, he’ll never reclaim his last best chance to be a kid.

Is that wisdom or foolish drivel? The reader can decide. But know this: The real world encroaches upon
us all, eventually.